Million Dollar Man
by Oscurita Dentro
Summary: A couple of months after Dr. Friedlander is dispatched, Michael starts to realize he needs to give therapy another try. He meets his former shrink's replacement, and winds up getting a little more than he signed up for.
1. Chapter 1

_"And I don't know how you get over, get over  
Someone as dangerous, tainted and flawed as you."_ **  
\- Million Dollar Man by Lana Del Rey.**

 **Chapter One || The Pull**

Life had been bordering on idyllic since his crew had taken the Union Depository for all they could, and finally dispatched of the threats at their doors, and _most_ of the skeletons in their closets. With a hefty sum in the bank, his family back under one roof, and legitimate work to busy himself with, Michael thought things couldn't get much better.

Or at least that's what he was telling himself.

When the email popped up on his phone, he glanced at it for all of two seconds before clicking it away again, but for some reason he didn't delete it. It was an unconscious decision, and one he was later glad he'd made. He'd kept a lifeline back for himself, something that might help him survive this revamped retirement.

For as much as he'd hated that smug prick Friedlander for all the judging and looking down his nose he did. Not to mention that damn book he'd written - he missed having someone to vent to. Without that release, he was steadily bottling things up again and he knew all too well that it would slowly turn him explosively toxic.

He wasn't short of people in his life, but they weren't the kind of people you whined to. He saw plenty of Franklin and Trevor, although the latter was often a trauma in itself. He could never bring himself to open up properly about his trouble with Trevor, not after what he'd done to him. After everything that had been said since they reconnected. Underneath it all, it felt wrong to sound so ungrateful and disenchanted after seeing how he'd left Trevor to live for so many years.

He checked in on Lester too, every few weeks, but he did all he could to avoid baring his soul to any of his comrades. It didn't feel right to go on about about how hard life was getting to those guys. They didn't get it and that was okay, he didn't expect them to. They didn't have domestic issues as he did. They had more money than they'd ever know what to do with now, their problems and stresses had vanished the instant Lester had put all those zeros in their bank accounts, but Michael had money. It wasn't new to him. He'd been there, tried that, and found it wasn't the cure-all he'd hoped for.

 _More money, more problems_ \- seemed to be the rule of thumb now and even with trying to go legitimate as a studio exec and a business owner, he found that working for a living wasn't all it had been cracked up to be.

He'd made some acquaintances at the studio, the golf and country clubs of course, but they were much like the people who worked for him - just faces he made small talk with. People he felt pressure to maintain a certain _image_ around.

While he'd been in therapy, he hadn't realized just how much it helped to just rant and rave to someone. Now the option was gone, he truly missed it. Of course, he found the bitterness about paying someone to be interested in his problems and he hated sitting there, feeling as if he was being silently judging every word from his mouth. However, now that service had been removed from his life, he found it harder and hard to deny that therapy had actually helped.

He thought it was silly to need an ear like he did, and God knows he bitched enough about being in therapy while he was going through it, but he'd become used to visiting Dr. Friedlander. Used to the random phone calls, someone checking up on him. Even though half the time the asshole was just calling to fleece more money out of him, it had been nicer that he'd realized just to have someone on the sidelines that he could unload to. Someone who seemed to actually give a shit about what was happening in his head.

So, he kept the email from Friedlander's replacement, and he couldn't stop himself clicking on his inbox, almost every night. Reading, and re-reading the email over and over, contemplating the benefits of another session, all while still simultaneously telling himself he didn't need it. Hovering his thumb above the reply button, as he warred with himself over giving in and arranging an appointment.

After a particularly stressful day, fraught with drama at the studio, heavy downtown traffic, continually ungrateful offspring and an intensive struggle to maintain his newly found non-combative demeanour with his wife - _he snapped._

He couldn't resist the pull anymore. Despite knowing the email by heart already, but he gave it one last read to be certain it was what he needed.

 _Dear Mr De Santa,_

Due to Dr Friedlander's unfortunate and untimely death, I have been asked to take over his client list and offer further counselling to anyone who wishes to continue with the therapy they were receiving.

I will be offering sessions at the start of next month. If you are interested in making an appointment please reply, or call, and I will do my best to accommodate you.

I understand that you perhaps feel starting over with a new therapist may not be beneficial to you, but I am in possession of all Dr. Friedlander's notes and will be able to hit the ground running if you choose to continue your therapy with me.

Kind regards,  
Dr. Nardovino

What did he have to lose? Apart from a thousand bucks and an hour of his time? He had more than enough money to cover therapy, he wasn't exactly short of time either, and he really needed that ear. Someone to air his inner thoughts to, someone who could help him organize all the confusion within him. Someone to put the dark side that kept on threatening to break out into perspective, or back in its restraints.

He hit reply and typed out a short message without thinking too much about it, asking for the first available appointment. He worried he'd waited too long to take up the offer, the email was weeks old now, but a reply came back to him almost instantly.

It offered a slot that Thursday at eleven am. There was no demand for confirmation, it was an open invitation to show up at an address on Ineseno Road, along the coast near Banham Canyon.

He stopped himself from replying to confirm his attendance, he didn't want to seem too keen, and he certainly didn't want to tie himself into committing to showing up, but the truth of the matter was - he couldn't wait.

The hope that having someone to talk to about what was going on inside his head, seemed to help him continue to maintain the positive and agreeable facade at home. He hoped more therapy sessions would keep the mask in place and prevent his mind from being contaminated with all the dark side of himself, his aggression and all the thoughts that played in the shadows.

To some degree, for a while at least, therapy had helped him control those urges that tried desperately to provoke him. Yet now he'd tasted the life again, it had undone all the good the years of treatment had done. He was finding it hard and harder every day to resist taking up the shady jobs that crossed his path. The urges that tormented his temper, and excited his libido.

Of course there were no guarantees that the new therapist was going to be any good. He knew it wouldn't be a quick fix, but there was a little hope, and that would have to be good enough for now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two || Wolf At The Door**

Thursday came quickly, as he'd hoped, and he left home without a word to anyone. Finding that the late morning traffic was lighter than expected, he managed to navigate across town without any dramas and hit an almost straight run of green lights. In the ten years he'd lived in Los Santos he'd learned the streets like the back of his hand. An old habit from his days spent planning heists and out running cops.

The address he'd been given wasn't much further from his house than his previous therapists place. Twenty minutes away from his front door on clear roads, maybe forty in heavy traffic. The Great Ocean Highway was an enjoyable drive for him any time of day, regardless of other road users. Views of the water speeding past and the ocean air invading the car were both like a cheap form of medication for him.

He pulled off the highway smoothly, and steered the car down a road lined with beach houses and condos, that ran parallel with the shore. He'd been given a number and began counting off residences. The instructions in the email said the house in question was four doors down from the twenty-four-seven at the end of the street, where parking was apparently available. That would have been helpful, had he not been coming from the opposite direction.

He was quickly getting impatient, his inner voice busily trying to tell him how stupid the whole idea was, as he crawled the car along the street. Focusing hard on finding the right place, until he finally pulled up alongside a rather industrial looking house, with tubs of bright flowers framing the drive and a bright yellow awning hanging above the front door, but no windows street side.

There wasn't much to see out front, but oddly the garage door was open, showing signs of life, and also preventing him from parking up on the driveway. Stopped at the curb up ahead, half up on a strip of hilly land opposite, was a small box truck. He pulled up behind it and idled the engine for a moment. The trucks back doors were open showing it was empty inside. He looked across the street to his left, and noted that the large, open garage door revealed a mass of cardboard boxes.

It didn't take much to deduce that the truck was obviously dropping something off to the good doctor's house. The scene suggested he'd arrived too early, and he checked the clock on the dash. Sure enough, he was five minutes ahead of his slot, but not being one to normally make, _or keep_ , appointments, he figured early was better than late. Even if the good doctor was still with a patient, he was keen to get things moving before he could talk himself out of it again.

He killed the engine and ducked out of the car, before he could start talking himself out of what he was doing. Stalking quickly across the quiet street he approached the heavy wooden front door and scanned for a bell, or a knocker but before he could spot one, the door burst open and two burly looking guys in boiler suits barrelled out.

His jumped back, his natural defences automatically kicking in, sending his hand going for his back, where a gun would usually have been waiting, but his sharp eyes quickly noted the logo on the boiler suits and he stood down from code red. They were part of the moving company, he guessed that Dr. Narvadino hadn't been in town very long after all.

One of the men caught the door, stopping it from closing and held it open for Michael to take. "I got an appointment..." He said, feeling some odd need to explain himself.

"I think it's cool to go up man, mind the boxes though!" The Latin looking guy suggested and Michael moved fast to grab the door and stepped through into a small foyer.

It was narrow and cool inside, lit with natural light from a tall window made of glass bricks on the right hand side. He looked around for a moment, guessing the door to his right lead through into the garage, so instead he took the stairs up to the first floor. Heading towards the warm glow of sunshine coming from the upper window and the open door that lead into his new therapists condo.

Arriving on the small landing, he gave a cheerful but firm knock on the glass panelled door and took a step back. Since making the appointment, in quiet moments, his mind had sometimes wandered to thoughts of his new therapist.

Imaging what he'd look like, what ivory tower he'd be looking down at him from. He imagined Friedlander two-point-oh. Some smug shithead who was keen on handing out judgements and distain. His inner voice was about to start telling him all the reasons to ditch again. Trying to convince him why he should ditch and go back to the car, but the door suddenly clicked open and every logical thought shut down.

"...Er... _hi_..." He mumbled out, his jaw feeling slack with surprise. His eyes greedily taking in the tall, slender woman who stood in the doorway. Dressed in a low cut, long sleeved, white blouse and a tight fitting black pencil skirt. She looked more than a little flustered. Her curly dark hair was tied up in a messy bun and judging by how she tried to kick a box that was blocking the door out of the way, he assumed time had gotten away from her.

"I'm here to see Dr. Nardovino." He offered, his brain not fully connecting the dots. "Michael De Santa." He introduced, pointing at himself.

"Yes! _Of course_. Come in." She offered, stepping back into the house, allowing him to enter.

Observant as ever, he quickly looked around the place. Unlike where Friedlander worked, the house appeared to be open plan. On the far side of the room, sectioned off by a half-wall, was a large, bright kitchen and smart dining area, which left the rest of the space for a living room. There was an open wooden stair case to the near side of the room, that he assumed lead up to the bed and bathrooms. More glass brick windows flanked the sides of the house, shining soft, warm light in. Casting down on the brown cardboard boxes that seemed to be scattered everywhere. Some open with their contents spilling out, others still sealed with mystery.

As he turned his head to the left, to his joy, he saw the entire western wall was made of sheet glass, showing an unhindered ocean view, that practically blew him away. As soon as he saw it, his feet began to wander over to the windows to look out on the water, but he stopped himself.

 _Where was Dr. Nardovino?_

He pulled his eyes away from the view and turned back to the woman who was looking at him with big, curious, blue eyes. Despite her slightly flustered appearance, she still looked smart. _Powerful_. He would have felt somewhat under dressed in her company, if it wasn't for the fact he was wearing a slick grey suit.

He'd unknowingly assumed she must be his new therapists wife, or girlfriend. She was still barefoot, and was obviously running late for some kind of professional gig in the city. A lawyer maybe? Something corporate, he guessed, but suddenly she was extending her hand to him and for a moment, his brow furrowed.

She wasn't surprised by the frown on his face, it was expected. "I'm Dr. Nardovino."

Michael's mouth moved but no sound came out for a moment. "... _You're_..."

"A woman." She stated, dropping her hand.

"Yeah..." He said breathily, somewhat ashamed of his presumptions.

She understood instantly and made a move for a glass coffee table nestled amongst a soft looking L-shaped couch and chairs, where her filofax was waiting. "If that's a problem for you, I can suggest another therapist..." She offered, picking up the leather bound diary, and turning back to him as she flicked through her contacts.

Michael looked at her deeply. She was beautiful, far too beautiful to be sitting in a beach house, neighboured by foreclosures, dressed like a million bucks and ready to listen to an idiot like him whining about his trivial problems.

"No!" he called out to stop her getting ahead of herself. "It's...I mean...I..." He couldn't find the words. She looked to him for her cue, unsure what he wanted to do. "I don't mind...it's just...I was expectin'..." he sighed, dropping his shoulders and throwing up his hands in defeat. "I don't know _what_ I was expectin'." He released, turning his head back to the ocean again for a moment before looking back to her. Drawing to look at her mouth, as she lightly bit on her bottom lip, full and painted powerful red.

"I completely understand if you're uncomfortable. I should have told you I was female when you made the appointment." Michael's instinct said an apology should have followed her statement, but she held it back. She wasn't going to apologise for being a woman, and he liked that.

"It's okay." He agreed. "It's gonna take some gettin' used to n'all, but...I'm down to try it out..." he offered. "If you'll have me?"

She smiled warmly, but he could see she felt awkward, just as he did. "Of course." She agreed, looking at him for a moment longer than she should have.

Truth was, she was as surprised to see him as he was her. While reading his file, she'd pictured an absolute monster of a man. She hadn't imagined him to be so smartly dressed and strong looking. Hewas taller than she'd imagined too and she certainly hadn't thought for a second he'd be so damn handsome either.

Rugged looking, with the heavy stubble around his jaw, broad shoulders cut out perfectly by a well tailored suit. Michael De Santa in the flesh, was nothing like the demon she'd envisioned in her head.

She quickly snapped out of her contemplation and gestured to the couch. "Please take a seat. I'm sorry about the mess. The movers were supposed to be here two weeks ago, but there was some screw up with the shipping company and they just showed up out of the blue this morning." She rambled, hating having lost control over her environment.

Michael did as she suggested, as she quickly moved over to near the half-wall that divided the room and slipped her bare feet into a pair of black heels.

He watched with keen eyes. She was at home, safe and comfortable, she had no reason to be putting her feet in shoes, but he assumed it was perhaps her marker for professionalism. Someway of separating her home life with her career. A uniform of sorts. "Can I get you a drink, or anything?" She offered, looking back to him.

"No, I'm good, doc." He said, leaning back into the soft beige couch, nearest to the fireplace, but still with the best view of the ocean. "This is a nice place you got here."

"Thanks." She smiled politely, smoothing out her shirt and skirt, before grabbing up his file from the kitchen counter and hurrying over to join him. "It's not ideal for practicing. I'm looking to get an office downtown..." Michael cut her off.

"No, doc, this is fuckin' perfect. I mean, look at that view." He gestured. "Who wouldn't want to pour their heart out lookin' at that ocean."

She chuckled softly, as she took her place opposite him, sitting down in a soft, light grey chair with light wood arms. She sat delicately, knees together, angled with knees pointing towards him, feeling a little exposed in the short skirt she'd chosen that morning.

She told herself to relax, not to worry about the dangerous villain that was sitting in her living room, but the deep seeded trust issues she had of her own were beginning to awaken. All the things she'd read about him came flooding back in, reminding her of the deluge of destruction and terror the attractive man before her had caused.

The other clients she'd seen since arriving in town and taking over from Dr. Friedlander were all benign. Mainly self obsessed actors and actresses, complaining about being out of work, or not getting paid enough for their incredible talents. Cheating husbands or mistresses justifying their actions and looking for validation in who to blame for them. Couples who hated each other but used therapy as proof they were trying to make it work. Parents and teenagers who constantly butted heads on the slightest issue.

Michael De Santa however, was a different kind of beast all together. If the notes were true, she had just let a wolf in.  
 **  
**


	3. Authors Note

Hi everyone.

I can see this fic is getting a lot of views here, so I thought I better let you guys know that **I've been updating the story on Archive of Our Own dot org (AO3)**.

Unfortunately it seems we can no longer post links ANYWHERE on this stupid site, so you'll need to use your smarts to find it over there, but I write under the name **Oscurita** and (currently) eleven chapters of the story are listed in the **Video Games section under Grand Theft Auto V** with the pairing as **Michael De Santa/Original Female Character**.

I hope you can find the story over on AO3, and as always I'd love to hear from you, so please come share your thoughts/support with me there.

Thanks all!


End file.
